by K. J. Parker
“It’s not true, is it?” Muri said. “It’s just a stupid lie.”
Nobody moved, apart from Aidi, who swallowed, the way you do when you wake up after sleeping with your mouth open.
“Is it true?” Kunessin said.
The hand holding the page slowly drooped; it hung at Aidi’s side as though it was broken. “No,” he said, “of course not.”
“Are you sure about that, Aidi?” Kunessin said.
Silence. Perhaps it was as quiet as that at the beginning of the world. Then Alces said: “Odd that they chose to pick on you, though. You don’t own the island, Teuche does.”
“It’s not true,” Aidi repeated; and the others, who knew him so well, knew that he was lying. Always was a piss-poor liar. He saw it in their faces. They were watching him . . .
Years ago, when he was a boy, he’d heard his uncle’s story about the time he’d gone to Allogloss, the land of scrub and burning skies, where there are still lions; how his uncle, stupid drunk after a session round the campfire, had stumbled off into the bush to piss; how he’d crossed the rim of a small dip in the ground and suddenly realised he was five yards away from six fully grown lions, which stood absolutely still and watched him, with the most perfect concentration imaginable; how he’d frozen, knowing that the slightest movement would mean his death, a clown caught balancing on one foot, suddenly cold deadly sober, looking back at the lions, a mirror to their intensity; how he’d hung there, impossibly, for a lifetime of ten seconds before slowly putting his left foot on the ground, slowly taking a step back with his right foot, slowly taking a step back with his left foot, keeping his head perfectly, perfectly still, until his heel told him he’d made it to the top of the rise; how he’d slid down the back face of the escarpment on his nose and belly, scrambled, run so fast he was practically flying, back to the campfire where the other drunks were singing . . . As a boy, Aidi had had nightmares about the cold, quick, keen eyes of the lions, so that he imagined they were watching him all the time, waiting for the slightest movement, which would entitle them to spring . . .
“Aidi,” Muri said.
“It’s not true.” (And he felt cold, in his elbows and knees and knuckles, and his stomach clenched tight and stabbed him, like the spasms from the poison.) “You believe me, don’t you?”
And nobody answered, which was like the absolute stillness of the lions before they sprang, and Aidi knew that everything had suddenly gone wrong.
“So that’s where you got to,” Teuche said, his voice flat. “When we all got split up.”
Aidi nodded. “I wound up at a farmhouse,” he said. “They asked me in, made a fuss of me; what nice people, I thought. And I went to sleep, and when I woke up—”
Kunessin held up his hand. “I don’t want to know,” he said.
“Teuche . . .”
“I said, be quiet.” The last word flicked out at him, like a slap, like a punch, so fast it couldn’t be warded against or ducked or sidestepped; like a lion, so much faster than any human. He actually tried to dodge the word, shifting his head to one side, as if it was an arrow or a javelin. It was one of those words, he knew, that changes everything; like, no, I don’t love you any more, or yes, it’s terminal, one of those words that mark the end of the world. So he tried to avoid it, the way A Company had always managed to avoid that sort of thing. A Company had the knack of skiving off death, sneaking past defeat, worming their way into salvation without paying for a ticket; they had reactions faster than any arrow, footwork and moves that could beat any man living; fire couldn’t burn them, even poison didn’t seem to work on them, as though they had a note, a safe conduct, diplomatic immunity or some other loop-hole or technicality. But not, apparently, when the word was launched by one of them at another of them, as though the lions had turned on each other.
But Aidi Proiapsen, outnumbered four to one, had a concealed weapon, and in that cold moment, suddenly cold deadly sober, he chose to draw it, knowing it couldn’t be sheathed again without drawing blood. It was the hardest decision he ever took. He didn’t hesitate for even a split second.
“All right,” he said. “I admit it. What are you planning to do about it?”
Kunessin was nobody’s fool, and he knew Aidi Proiapsen very well. So he hesitated, trying to understand the stab of intuition, the prick of a knife at his throat, the sudden all-destroying awareness that in the moment of committing his forces to all-out attack, he’d been out-thought and outflanked and was running into ambushes and pitfalls and caltrops and checkmate; that he’d lost, without yet knowing how.
“Well?” Aidi said.
“If it’s true . . .” Kudei said slowly.
“It’s true,” Aidi said.
“But that’s not . . .” Muri was drowning, sinking into quick-sand. “Nuctos died,” he wailed. “Aidi, how could you do that?”
“You weren’t there,” Aidi replied. “You don’t know anything about it.”
“You betrayed us,” Alces said, the faintest growl from the lions.
Well, Aidi thought, this is it. “I wasn’t the only one,” he said.
Major Anogei gave his orders. Over there, by that lean-to, a big stack of cordwood. Of course, he knew better than to ask for volunteers.
“Get a couple of long poles,” he said, “and brace the door. Actually, make it half a dozen. Get ’em jammed in really good and firm. Then I want you to pile that cordwood tight up against the door. Think you can do that?”
There was also sacking, and packing straw from the barrels and crates, a nice store of small, dry kindling. He took a long, hard look at the thatch, which wasn’t thatch at all; it was compressed bundles of dead bracken and briar. A quick burn, very hot, but would it burn itself out too quickly, and would it burn too clean, without smoke?
At which point, one of the junior lieutenants reported that they’d found another large logpile on the far side of the compound: five cords, still green, but all ash, and ash will burn unseasoned. Anogei closed his eyes for a moment. “Fetch it,” he said. “I want it piled up against the walls on the two long sides.”
He glanced up at the sun. One hour he’d given them. Of course, he doubted very much whether they had anything to measure a precise hour by; and suppose he cheated and only gave them fifty-five minutes, what exactly were they going to do about it?
“Make up a dozen torches,” he ordered.
Kunessin said nothing.
It was as though a spring had broken, and the mechanism had stopped. Aidi waited for his cue, which was a long time coming. Eventually Kudei said, “What’s that supposed to mean, exactly?”
He felt better now, much calmer. He’d been afraid his voice would crack, or come out squeaky, or he’d stammer and trip over the words. “Teuche?” he said.
Kunessin lifted his head. There was no need for words; he was saying: Don’t do it, Aidi. Between us we can sort this out. We can handle them. Don’t.
But it was too late for that, Aidi decided; it was a choice, rather than a conclusion drawn from an assessment of the evidence. Actually, he believed Teuche might be able to handle it, if he asserted his full authority, gave them a direct order. But - now here was a surprise, which only went to show; he hadn’t realised it, right up to this moment. He’d found the weapon; of course, Teuche hadn’t been there, he’d still been in the army, miles away, no reason to assume he’d ever come back, so what earthly good would it do, to destroy him with it and bring them all down? So he’d put it away, carefully, wrapped it in oilcloth in his mind, not realising when he did so that Teuche’s crime was something he could never, ever forgive, even if it meant the end of the world. His own guilt, oddly enough, had nothing to do with it. He didn’t feel bad about it. If he hadn’t given in, they’d have put his eyes out, and his life would have been unbearable. Besides, he hadn’t killed Nuctos; it was some enemy archer who’d done that. But Teuche (Teuche who was guilty, rotten to the core, unforgivable) wouldn’t let him explain, had never let him win an argument
, had listened to him all these years and over-ridden him every single time. So it was the end of the world. So what?
“Teuche stole from us,” he said, and such a blessed relief to get the words out. “All through the war. He stole our money, embezzled. He took Nuctos’ share. He cheated us. He shaved the prize money. He sold cheap to his agent back home, and then the agent sold on at full price, and he kept the difference. All the time we were fighting for our lives, when we were thinking it was just us, the six of us against the whole world, he was screwing us for pennies on the thaler, just like he was screwing the government.” He ran out of words. He felt empty, as though he’d just sicked up his soul. So he waited. The next words Teuche would say would be the end of it, the unforgivable statement, the foot in the snare, the trap sprung. He knew him so well.
“It wasn’t for me,” Kunessin said, and Aidi barked like a dog for pure joy. “It was for all of us. It’s what paid for us to come here. Every penny . . .”
“Light the torches,” Anogei said, “and set fire to the cordwood.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the lieutenant; then he checked himself, hesitated, and asked, “Aren’t you going to give them a chance to surrender?”
“No,” Anogei said.
“Teuche,” Kudei said.
Kunessin swung round and hit him. His fist caught the side of his head, just above the ear. Kudei went down with a crash, knocking over a chair. Alces jumped up, took a step back, but he was up against the wall.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” Alces said. “It’s true, what he just said.”
“He betrayed us to the enemy,” Kunessin shouted. “He killed Nuctos.”
“You stole Nuctos’ share,” Aidi said, delighted, enjoying himself so much. “Do you remember, Fly? He was so coy about it: oh dear, someone’s got to do this boring job of sorting out the money, I really don’t want to, but if you insist . . .” He took a pace forward, inviting attack. “Nobody made you do it, Teuche; nobody was torturing you, forcing you into it. No, you thought: here’s all this money, and they’ll never know. You might as well have pulled the boots off his feet.”
“Oh, it was torture, was it?” Kunessin grinned scornfully, all his teeth. “What did they do, Aidi? Break your arms and legs, pull your teeth out, smash your ribs in with a pick handle? I don’t think so. I think we’d have noticed if they had. I seem to remember you came back and there wasn’t a mark on you.”
Alces was about to lunge forward, but Muri stopped him, a massive hand on his shoulder, pushing him down until his knees folded. Alces wriggled free, flipped sideways, caught Muri’s wrist and tried to wrench it into a lock; failed and let go. He expected Muri to do something, but realised Muri’s attention was elsewhere. He was frowning.
“They said they’d put my eyes out,” Aidi replied; unwillingly, because it sounded so weak. “It’s the one thing I’ve always been scared of. I just couldn’t bear the thought of it. Being dead, fine, so what, comes to us all. But that . . .”
“You killed Nuctos,” Muri said slowly.
“Nuctos died in the war,” Aidi snapped. “Some bastard on a horse shot him and he died. It could’ve been any time, in any of the battles. It just so happened—”
“I think you’ll have your work cut out getting us to believe it was an accident,” Alces said quietly. “I wouldn’t bother trying, if I were you.”
“Fine,” Aidi spat. “I was a coward. I was chicken. I sold out my friends to save my own skin because I was shit scared, because I was so fucking terrified I couldn’t control myself. At least I’ve got that excuse. What he did—”
Kunessin swung round to face Aidi. “For crying out loud, I just told you, it wasn’t for me. Every last quarter, I put into this place—”
“He’s lying,” Aidi said, smug, happy. “He wanted the money to buy Kudei’s farm. That was nice, wasn’t it? He was going to buy Kudei’s farm with Kudei’s own money. Of course, he could never forgive the Gaeons for buying it, when his dad lost the place because he was such a useless farmer he couldn’t make a living.”
“It was the war,” Kunessin screamed at him. “It was the bloody war.”
“So was what I did,” Aidi said. “You can’t have it both ways, Teuche.”
“Just a minute,” Muri said. “Can you smell burning?”
“We didn’t choose to have a fucking battle on our doorstep,” Kunessin roared back. “It was all right for you, safe in the town, sat on your arse counting your money.”
“I’d keep off the subject of money if I were you.”
Kunessin went for him. Like a lion, Aidi thought, as he moved to dodge the punch. He fully expected to get out of the way in time, but he didn’t. His eyes blurred, and he was falling, and Teuche was standing over him, kicking him in the ribs, killing him. Too quick, like the lions.
But Alces was quick too; he jumped on Kunessin’s back, linked his hands under his chin and pressed back as hard as he could, to crush the windpipe. Kunessin slammed backwards over his shoulder with the palm of his right hand, estimating to perfection where Alces’ jaw was likely to be; he felt the bone crack, and the pressure on his throat slacken. He kicked Aidi’s ribcage, as hard as he could. It was like breaking up sticks for kindling. Then he felt a finger in his left eye, which was more than he could afford. He twisted away, stumbled back until his heel hit the wall, and slammed himself backwards against it to crush the enemy.
Aidi was on his feet. He’d got hold of a length of wood, a stave from the barrel he’d been sitting on. But Muri was suddenly there, and he kicked it out of his hand, and Aidi punched him in the chest. Muri staggered back, took three steps to get his balance, then charged, head down, crude, stupid move but Muri was very big and very quick; Aidi was expecting something clever. He screamed as Muri’s head thudded into his cracked rib, tripped over his own feet and went down, catching his head a horrible crack against the leg of the table. Then Muri was on top of him, hammering his fists into Aidi’s face, just as Alces relaxed his hands and fell off Kunessin’s back.
Muri stopped hitting, leant back and stared up at the roof. Aidi’s eyes were full of blood, but he took the opportunity; he twisted sideways, throwing Muri off him, rolled clear, and used the momentum to bounce himself on to his feet. For a moment he couldn’t get his balance; he could hardly breathe and his vision was wretchedly blurred, as if the room was full of smoke. But then Kunessin came hurtling at him; he turned his shoulder and charged. They collided, crashing into each other so hard that they both staggered, clutched at each other for support, found it and shifted their grips, each scrabbling for the other’s throat.
“The house is on fire,” Muri shouted.
Then Kudei was sitting up, blood trickling from his nose, eyes squinting in the bitter smoke. Through his blurred vision he saw Kunessin; he skipped and hopped through the fallen and smashed furniture and slammed his fist into the small of Kunessin’s back; lost his footing, clutched, both arms round Kunessin’s throat, hanging on to him like a toddler and strangling him at the same time.
Above the crackle of the bone-dry briars and the hiss of damp steaming out of the walls, Anogei could hear thumps and crashes, like fractious steers being herded into stalls at the market. His heart fluttered, and he yelled for all his men to come up and form a ring round the barn. “Sounds like they’re busting through the wall,” he told his senior lieutenant. “If they get out, they’ll be through us like a needle.”
The lieutenant turned his face away; it was stinging and raw from the heat.
Trying to shout a warning, Muri sucked in a mouthful of smoke. Coughing it back up again was like vomiting gravel. It felt like it had taken half his throat with it.
They’d done this at the Military College, of course. When you’re trapped in a smoke-filled room, remember there’s always one lungful of clean air inside your shirt. He sucked it in, savoured it, and used it to yell, “Come on, for God’s sake, we’ve got to get out.”
His last shout of air, and he’d wasted
it. They hung together, like the four legs of a table, supporting each other and the thing itself; even as they fought, every second inflicting some further real and permanent damage (they’d gone through the war pretty much unscathed), they made up one mutually supporting structure, twined round each other, a fabulous creature with four bodies, eight arms, eight legs, four heads. Like a statuary fountain, or the pedestal for some great overblown bronze monument; all four applying the maximum force at his disposal, four perfectly balanced forces cancelling each other exactly out.
Muri Achaiois, who’d never fitted in quite as well, who was never listened to, hurled himself at the group, trying to break in, to force them apart, to make them stop fighting and understand that the barn was on fire. It was an accident that he got the heel of Aidi’s hand in his face, Kudei’s knee in his crotch, Teuche’s elbow in his solar plexus. He grabbed for support and hung from Aidi’s and Teuche’s shoulders, while they hammered him with their fists, believing (because they could no longer see) that they were hitting each other. He felt a rib splinter, an overpowering sharp spike as the jagged blade of the bone pricked his lung. He was yelling, the barn is on fire, but he couldn’t even hear it himself.
A section of rafter, burned through at both ends, fell across his shoulders, hit the side of Alces’ head, rested its red-hot, bellows-blown embers on Aidi’s outstretched, braced arms as he gripped Muri’s throat. Kudei got his hands under the other end and heaved it out of the way. Before he could get back to the job in hand, however, a pitch of blazing thatch landed on top of his head, lighting his hair, and Aidi’s, and Muri’s.
Anogei was surprised at how well the barn went up. In his report, he gave the credit to a sudden stiff breeze off the sea, which was drawn in under the eaves by the short, intense blaze in the thatch. His explanation was that the fire on the roof, fanned by said breeze, cooked up hot enough to ignite the two-inch-thick side planking, which then burnt freely from the top down. Unsupported, the rafters then fell in, flushing a dense, thrilling covey of orange sparks. Of course, nothing could have survived that.